


Sealed Together in Death

by fratboyoforome



Series: Silmarillion Character Studies [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Incest, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Violence, celegorm has Issues TM, look whoever said GoT was the most messed up fandom clearly never interacted w/ the silm fans, take a walk through celegorms mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:11:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fratboyoforome/pseuds/fratboyoforome
Summary: Celegorm's musings before, during, and after the Battle of Menegroth.





	Sealed Together in Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts), [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts).



> inspired by june and lion who are enablers of the worst kind
> 
> title from the soundtrack to Middle Earth: Shadow of Mordor

They rally their forces at dawn.

Celegorm looks out at the gaunt, little army, and sneers disdainfully. They’re badly armed, weak and starved, and though there is cruelty in their burning eyes, many of them still suffer from wounds sustained in the Nirnaeth.

His brothers are at the forefront of the army; Maedhros, a horrid-looking goblin creature after his stint in Morgoth’s hands (grief is etched on his ugly face, as it has been since word came to them of the death of Fingon– why, in Vána’s name, Maedhros is still mourning after hundreds of years, is a mystery to Celegorm); Maglor, grim and pale, but steely-gazed and determined; Caranthir, his sword already drawn, the rings on his hands glittering in the sparse sunlight (of course, he hasn’t even bothered to take off his jewellery, Celegorm thinks and rolls his eyes), the lines around his thin lips speak of displeasure – Caranthir never did like killing; Ambarussa, his grey eyes empty, devoid of life or feeling, peering at Celegorm through dirty, copper red tresses of hair; and Curufin…

Curufin is glorious. Celegorm always thinks that his little brother is glorious, of course, a shining silver spear of beauty and cunning. His long, dark hair is tied back in a tight braid, falling all the way to his trim waist, his lithe body covered with simple armour. Curufin takes no notice of Celegorm's stare. He looks toward the gates of Menegroth, the entrance to Doriath, instead, clearly contemplating their battleplan, their strategy.

Curufin is the cleverest of them all, thinks Celegorm proudly and flushes, when he remembers what it feels like to have that cold, calculating gaze turned on himself. He knows that beneath Curufin's collar, his brother’s pale chest is covered with bruises and love bites. He knows that his own back is equally bruised, from his brother’s sharp nails.

Word of the whereabouts of the Silmaril had reached them months ago in their exile. Celegorm remembers, vividly, how he and Curufin had celebrated. It had involved silk sheets, wound tightly around Celegorm's wrists, and elegant hands, pulling on his silver hair.

The memory warms his body, and he grows hard in his breeches. Discreetly he tries to adjust himself, but his movement catches Maglor's attention. His older brother looks at him searchingly, and Celegorm, never one to be ashamed of anything, gives him a dirty grin. Maglor narrows his eyes and looks from Celegorm to Curufin, and back again. His gaze is very judgmental.

Celegorm merely raises his eyebrows in response. As if Maglor has any right to judge. As if Celegorm doesn’t know how Maglor and Maedhros use love and tenderness to hurt each other.

Then, as the sun crawls over the horizon, bathing the world in warmth, their scouts return. Dior expects them, of course, and is waiting in the Caves, hoping that his soldiers will kill them, before they can enter the gates.

Maedhros listens intently to the scouts, and then finally, finally, gives the order to attack.

They break through the guards easily and then, at last, they’ve gained access to the Glittering Caves of Thingol and Melian, which thus far have been forbidden them.

Celegorm throws himself into the battle with all his heart. His blood sings as he swings his sword and cleaves his foe’s head. It is glorious. The halls of Menegroth have deserved their name, he thinks, looking at the shining walls and the beautiful mosaics on the floor, now slippery with blood and covered in the bodies of fallen soldiers. The blood shines and the light of the lamp is reflected in the amour of the fallen. Celegorm laughs, fair and fey and covered in the blood of his enemies.

He swings his sword again, relishing the burn in his muscles, smiling through it all.

Another foe falls.

There is a lull in the battle around him then, and he turns around, trying to locate his brothers, see if one of them needs his help. The sight that greets him, makes him freeze.

Curufin is fighting Dior – and Celegorm feels very proud for a moment, watching them, his little brother is fast and nimble and seems to be winning – but then an arrow comes flying, seemingly out of nowhere and hits Curufin’s thigh. The bad thigh. The thigh he almost broke, when Beren Erchamion felled his horse all those years ago.

Curufin falls to his knees.

Dior kicks his shoulder, pushing him over. As Curufin falls to the ground, everything seems to slow down around Celegorm and he is frozen, can only watch, as Curufin spits a few, disdainful words at Dior – Celegorm cannot hear what they are, though, judging from the way Dior’s beautiful face (and by Manwë, he looks just like his mother) twists in rage and he raises his spear, preparing to drive it into Curufin's chest, Curufin has not lost his sharp tongue, though he is about to die.

A cry of denial rises unbidden from Celegorm's throat but he is too far away and can only watch, as Curufin turns his head on the ground, meeting his eyes, stretching out his hand. His lips form a word, which Celegorm cannot hear, but will forever recognise the shape of.

“Tyelko...” Curufin is trying to say his name, but before he can finish, before Celegorm can react, Dior drives his spear down, into Curufin's chest.

For a moment the slim, dark-haired form on the ground tenses; tears rise in his blue eyes; and then he goes limp, his out-stretched arm hitting the slick floor softly, his grey eyes staring lifelessly into space.

Celegorm lets out a cry of anger and, without pausing to think for even a second, he attacks Dior, with only one goal – to kill him.

They fight long and hard. They are evenly matched and at any other time Celegorm would relish the challenge but not now. Now he is angry and he wants to kill. And then he wants his ridiculous little brother to wake up and call him a fool and hit him over the head, like he always does.

At one point, Celegorm sees a flash of dark hair in the corner of his eye and his attention is diverted, thinking that it is either Maglor or Caranthir come to help him. He turns his head, watches Caranthir fall to the ground, a sword buried to the hilt in his chest, and Celegorm's eyes burn with tears.

His attention is diverted for but a moment, but that moment is his doom, for Dior springs forth, spear at the ready, and catches Celegorm through the stomach.

For a moment they stand there, both breathing harshly, then Dior wrenches his spear free and Celegorm falls to his knees. Dior stands above him, raises his spear, but he hesitates and Celegorm takes his chance, gathers what’s left of his renowned strength and lunges.

His sword catches Dior’s throat and the son of Lúthien falls, dead before he hits the ground. Celegorm spares him hardly a glance as he crawls towards Curufin's body, one hand pressed to the wound in his stomach, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood. He gathers Curufin into his trembling arms and reaches down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, strokes his face tenderly.

Around him the noise of the battle slowly fades to nothing, but he is unsure whether it is because he is dying or because the fighting is over. In truth, he hardly cares.

Just as he is about to close his eyes at last, he hears a shout and opens them again, slowly. Maedhros is standing over him, tears in his eyes, his scarred face somehow more beautiful when he’s on the verge of tears than at any other time, suddenly worthy of his mother name again. Maedhros falls to his knees.

“Tyelko,” he murmurs, distraught, and Celegorm lets out a quiet huff of laughter.

“Do not cry, Nelyo,” he says, “we are not worth your tears, Curvo and I, you have said so often enough.”

“I lied,” whispers Maedhros, and now the tears are falling. He grips Celegorm's hand tightly, and Celegorm allows it, something he would not even have considered, if he hadn’t been about to die.

“Shall I tell Atar you said hello?” he asks, gasps, coughs, tastes blood in his mouth and spits it out. The droplet lands with a wet sound on the stone floor by his side. Nelyo nods shakily.

“Yes, Tyelko,” he says, “Please do that. And tell Mother I am sorry, when Námo lets you go someday.”

“Of course, Nelyo,” Celegorm smiles, there’s blood between his teeth, he’s sure of it, but he can barely hold his eyes open and he simply cannot bring himself to care. “I think,” he says, “I think, Nelyo, that I would like to close my eyes now. This one,” he pats Curufin's hair, “is waiting for me, and he will want to give me a thorough verbal lashing for letting it take so long. Or perhaps for dying. You never know with him.”

“No,” Maedhros says, “you never do. Close your eyes, Tyelko. You can sleep now.”

Celegorm closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://fratboy-of-orome.tumblr.com) for a chat abt anything


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